Genevieve
by myredrazzlevest
Summary: A young debauched gamin finds herself entangled with a stony inspector. With a complicated, uncertain future ahead of her, will she cling to the only man who embodies stability in her life? Rated M to be safe. The OC is my own creation. On temporary hiatus.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own anything - except my own character.

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If someone had ever asked her how she came to be, she would have answered quite plainly from the gutter. If she indeed had a mother and father, she did not know it. The memories of her childhood were embedded in the streets she treaded upon. She had no parents, no friends, only rivals and competition. The only lesson life ever taught her was how to fight. She was an unruly, unwanted child who simply grew into an uncontrollable young woman. Constantly fleeting, the wild owned her. Like some foreign entity, she could not stay long within civilization, and would take flight for days. No one truly knew her. But no one wished to know a _gamin_.

She was an expert at playing the streets, playing people, acting as if she had had a great education. Her education was in being the charming charlatan. Such children – for although they appear to have an adult demeanor, are in fact youngsters – swindle money as if it was their business, always have clothes, always have food to eat. Of course, the money is only a few sous, the clothes ragged, and the food old. The children are talented, for they know exactly how to support themselves given such materials to work with. Better off society did not like her type, finding _gamin_ to be like the black rat – but a few did hold a little pity within their chests to spare a sou, a coat, a croissant. Yet the tension between two completely different castes continued to exist.

She had simply wandered into Montreuil-sur-mer. One winter she just set out from Paris and kept walking, kept acting the perfect pretender. She left the heart of the country and ventured into the lung. With no home to return to, no one to care for her, for her to care about, she settled in at once, late 1812. She had been a rotten child, and as such, a greedy young woman. She constantly yearned for a few cool francs against her palm. When she could not earn enough to satisfy through pity, she stole. When she could not earn enough to satisfy through thievery, she converted to prostitution. Like an unpredictable maelstrom, greed will always ensnare a person in its endless cycle. Such went the disappointing life of Genevieve Chastain.

"Monsieur," she snapped one morning, "I believe you owe me money."

The man, a middle class mercantilist attempting to make a living on his own, eyed her stonily. He pursed his lips, and crossed his arms over his blue vest. Stiffly, as if he had to force himself to procure the francs from his pocket, he threw the silver coins across the bed. "Take these and get out."

She collected the money like an excited bird searching for grain, picked up her parasol, and fled the room. The man watched her go, shaking his head as he lit a cigarette.

Most mornings began in the same manner, and to Genevieve, if a morning did not start with impassive business, she was not working hard enough. Although she loathed the work, she found she made the most money from indecency. But no one had ever taught her the work was indecent. She loathed the work because she never found the suitors agreeable. To use a childish term, most were ugly. After the morning dealings, she would venture down to a little café.

"Bonjour, beau."

She glanced up from the little pastry she had been nibbling on. "Leave me alone."

The sultry greeting had come from a slim young man. She had seen the boy a few times at the café, with him approaching her with a wide smile each time. He was wearing the same smile. "Why are you so cold to me, Genevieve?" He pleaded gently.

She turned her head away, for she could not admit she actually cared for the stranger. She was cold to him because she did not want to make yet another client of the boy. "Because I do not know you," she replied sharply. "Why must I be nice to you?"

The young man frowned, dissatisfied by her answer. "Maybe if you got to know me, you would be more inclined to friendliness."

She slapped some money on the table and stood. "I am not sure about that, monsieur."

Then she left the café, left the young man once again desolate and aching. She did not know him, and yet he knew a world of information concerning her. He was not a stalker, nor a danger, only a young man completely infatuated with a cruel working woman. He should have hated her, and yet he could do no more than curse under his breath at himself. To do better next time – the goal was always the same, and yet never truly attainable. He wished to follow her, continue his loving pesters. But, he was young and had no premise to continuously harass her and was actually quite intimidated.

Out on the warm street, in the breeze, Genevieve aimlessly strolled. Her white parasol rested against her shoulder, her gaze never dropping to the concrete. Brought up a_ gamin_, she had adopted a voluptuous amount of confidence. The young woman had an iron will and a confidence which could never be cracked. She also had dexterous fingers – on a hand so dainty and innocent – which she often employed. Coming across a cluster of bright colored skirts, she easily saw an opportunity to earn a few shimmering coins. All she had to do was bump into one of the chirping women, ignore their surprised gasps, and take the fat purse one had been stupidly clutching. Normally a swift process, Genevieve was never deterred by being found out. The women were probably bourgeoisie, so what would one missing purse mean?

In a fluster of skirts, Genevieve grabbed the plush bag, only to have two gloved hands grasp her wrist in return.

"Thief!" The woman cried. "Give me back my purse!"

Shocked at the outcome, Genevieve instantly took flight. She clutched both the purse and her skirts and started down the street. She could hear the woman struggling after her.

"Stop thief! Help! Help! Please – she has my purse!"

If only Genevieve had the time to turn around and walk back up to the woman, how she wished to slap her. But she continued to push herself, to run, faster, faster, faster. She dropped the parasol without a second thought. When she could no longer hear the woman's incessant whining, she stopped to catch her breath. She looked up and saw two large gendarmes running toward her. She paled, turned on her heel, and began to flee like a lamb who feels the pressure of being cornered. Genevieve had only gotten fifteen feet before a mob of civilians grabbed her. She gave a yelp and dropped the purse.

The gendarmes arrived shortly, instantly binding her wrists. The purse was safely returned to the woman, who glared at Genevieve with a deep-seated scowl. Genevieve had only enough time to look away before the gendarmes hauled her down the street. The citizens of Montreuil leered as if she was some visiting circus act, but she held her head high. One old man spit at her. A mother pulled her child away as the spectacle passed. Genevieve pulled at the metal trusses angrily, only to have one of the gendarmes give her a rough shove.

"Come on, you wretch," one of the gendarmes complained. "You have enough strikes against you to take you to Toulon."

Genevieve stopped pulling. "Monsieur, you are a liar."

"Shut up!" The other answered. "Just wait until we deliver you to the inspector!"

She gave a start. Anyone in Montreuil-sur-mer knew the police force. Not because the citizens were noble, honest and fanatic about the law – almost all the very opposite – but because the inspector made their presence boldly known. To be taken to the inspector was a prominent happening in Montreuil. The inspector was respected because he was feared.

It seems when panicked, the nervous tend to have two main options. The first being to babble away aimlessly like a drowning man clutching to a support, the second to shroud oneself in complete silence. Genevieve chose the latter, for such pompousness would never allow otherwise. Yet silence is very rarely peaceful, and she soon found herself utterly flustered. Unable to unleash the anxiety, the pleas, the curses, she simply brooded quietly like a steaming pot capped off with a lid.

As for the men and women who saw the unfortunate soul that day, they later said, in a low whisper, "I saw the most hideous sight today. I saw two gendarmes carrying a young woman who looked ready to boil."


	2. Chapter 2

The gendarmes were not gentle when they brought the young woman before the inspector. With a single heave, both dispensed her onto the floor. Genevieve remained in a crumpled pile, mind occupied with the first thoughts the criminal has upon arrest. Would she be let go? How could she escape? Would the inspector take pity on her? She heard movement and glanced up, unable to see past the towering desk before her. She had never actually seen the inspector, but she had heard stories able to rival any entertaining horror tale. Such ignorance only increased her fear, as she wondered just what kind of a brute could inspire such appalling accounts. Yet she was appreciative of the fact she did not know the inspector very well. She might have collected a fair share of charges, but she had never been brought before the inspector before. Such ignorance once more! She would have said the very same if she were brought before a judge. She had never been brought before a judge. She had never been taken to prison. She did not realize her thoughts might soon grow hackneyed.

"Inspector," she heard one of the gendarme coo, "this young woman was found stealing a purse in the middle of town."

Genevieve listened as a chair was pushed back. She heard boots against the wooden floor, slow, agonizing in step. She knew the inspector was standing above her. Her breath hitched uncomfortably in her parched throat.

"What is your name?"

Just as she had assumed, his voice was harsh, hinting at the deeper, cruel depths he was capable of falling into. She did not dare look up, for fear his gaze would pin her helplessly to the floor.

"Genevieve Chastain," she answered meekly.

"She is quite guilty, Inspector," one of the gendarmes added. "She has numerous charges against her. I'd say we don't waste our time on this one – take her straight to Toulon."

"I will be the one making the decisions," the inspector replied firmly.

The gendarme instantly fell silent. Even his breathing seemed to be softer. Genevieve assumed his oppression would be the perfect moment for her to steal a glance at his superior. Steeling her nerves, she quickly peeked upward from behind the disheveled curtain of her dark brown hair. As if she had just witnessed something indecent, her gaze fell back to the floor, hiding behind their heavy lids. The inspector was not at all what she had imagined. He was much more domineering; she felt her heartbeat accelerate from a severe bout of apprehension.

He was tall and muscular, what would be the average build for a member of the force, but a build which was actually rarely seen. He had broad shoulders and a strong jaw adorned with thick sideburns. Although Genevieve could not see behind him, she was sure his light, long hair was tied back neatly. His unnerving green eyes had been shrouded by furrowed brows as he looked at the gendarme. His clothes had been in spectacularly clean condition, making her assume he relished control.

"Chastain!"

Shocked out of her reverie by the sharp growl, she looked up. The inspector was staring down at her, his lips set in a thin line. Genevieve realized he had been probably calling her name for some time.

"Y-yes, monsieur?"

"You will address me as Inspector," he snapped. "And I asked you a question. Now, what is your current form of employment – if you have any?"

Her face flushed. "I would not be stealing if I had any stable employment."

"She's a prostitute, Inspector," one of the gendarmes blurted.

The inspector seemed to ponder the statement for a moment, before casting the gendarme a warning glance. "I have heard quite a lot about you, Chastain. I am surprised you hold back on the details of your life. But, no matter, I already know what you do. You are a prostitute and thief."

Genevieve was slightly offended by his comment, as the way the words had slipped off his tongue managed to make her truly feel like a dirty scoundrel. She felt a need to defend herself from such an assault of words. "Well, I_ was_ a _gamin_."

The inspector was silent. "Ah yes, the most unfortunate," he whispered. "But I have let you run rampant too long," he then proclaimed, "and I believe it is time you were taught obedience to the law."

"How long did you know about me?"

He stiffened. "For a while now – mainly through the numerous reports filed on you."

"And what is going to happen to me?"

His eyes narrowed, the green appearing to turn into a dark, unreadable shade. "Like I said before, you will be taught something Chastain. You must be punished. You will detained and under constant guard for seventy-two days." He nodded to the gendarmes.

Genevieve felt her wrists yanked from under her, the gendarmes pulling her to her feet. She could barely stand straight, her knees feeling like two soggy pieces of bread. "That is my punishment?" For the first time since her capture, she tried to shake off the guards. "Good Inspector, do you not realize that once my sentence is done, I'll go back to the same business that got me locked up in here?"

The Inspector moved toward her, until there was barely any space between their bodies. His entire face was shrouded with a mask of disgust. He curled his lip, growling, "I would hope not, Chastain, as I will catch you and punish you as many times as need be."

Wrestled to her cell, locked up in the underbelly of the building, Genevieve only knew one thing: she loathed _le inspecteur_. Her hands were freed, and instead of just iron bindings on her wrists, she had an entire cage to entrap her. With no windows, no idea of time, Genevieve sat in loathing. She promised herself once she was free, her first task would be to take care of the good old inspector – rid Montreuil of the bothersome brute for sure. Oh, what hateful ideas are churned up in restraint! She spent hours sitting on the damp concrete in the cell, picking at her filthy dress and pondering. Sometimes, a few sounds would drift down from the street above – her only indication of society. Every hour a gendarme would pass by her cell. She would scoff at his presence. She was no more than a petty criminal, and yet she was treated as if she were a murderer.

She had never been arrested before. She had both a slight innocence to her and inexperience. She had no knowledge of how to escape. She was not a seasoned convict like some of the other grown _gamin_ she knew of. By the end of the week, she was radiating anger. Her entire demeanor was one of pent-up aggression. The way she would stare at the gendarme sent shivers down his spine. If one did not know the reason for her anger, they would have assumed her either a lunatic or possessed. Genevieve stopped eating in her frustration, and would sometimes wake in the middle of the night, confused, appearing to be extremely petrified by some unseen entity. The gendarmes were frightened and slightly concerned for her wellbeing. The inspector assured the men Genevieve was only using madness as a tactic for release. Another week passed by.

The inspector had been away on the second week of her detainment. The gendarmes were to watch the prisoner on their own. As if completely drained of anger, Genevieve spent the entire second week slumped over in the corner, knees drawn up to her chest. She still refused to eat and in effect, had become quite weak. Her hair was tangled, her entire body seeming to have taken on a film of grit, her nails sharp and untrimmed, her eyes murky and unpredictable. She never seemed to sleep, eyes constantly open, gazing out emptily. Even her dress had garnered a few holes, as if blatantly displaying her ultimate emptiness. Once in a while, if she was able to find a piece of charcoal or pliable dirt, she would draw on the corner wall.

Upon returning, the inspector was instantly accosted by the gendarmes.

"Inspector Javert – silent – nothing – she still doesn't eat – she doesn't speak!" One cried.

The inspector had been heading to his office, but suddenly headed toward the cells. "Well now," he said quite hopefully, "perhaps we've broken her will."

The lone gendarme followed him, feeling it was his duty to do so. He was also curious. No one had dared to approach the young woman, except to provide food. One of the reasons the young man had become a gendarme was to satisfy his intense noisiness. "What're you going to do, Inspector?" He asked excitedly as they reached the designated jail cell.

Genevieve was in the same position, propped up in the corner, scribbling clownish images on the wall. She did not even flinch when the gendarme opened her cell. As Javert approached, he could make out a light humming resonating from her. She was purring some unidentifiable prison song. Such pity. He stood right behind her, his boot almost pressing against her leg, but she did not stir.

"I have told you," she mumbled, "just leave the food by the door."

He ignored her comment. "I hear you have been quite mute, Chastain. And yet, here you are humming – looking as if you are getting along just fine."

She turned around at his voice, her expression one of shock and frustration. She threw the piece of charcoal a little past his boot. "Have you come to release me?" She tried hopefully. "You have not seen me for a while, Inspector."

He sneered at her words. "Do not play ignorant, Chastain. You know how long you have been here. You still have a while left."

She stood, a surprise to the gendarme who had become used to her slumped form. One would have assumed her to radiate dominance, standing. Yet, the young woman barely reached his chest. She gazed up at the inspector, trying to conceal her surprise at her small stature. Inspector Javert took a step back, as if repulsed by her appearance.

"Two weeks? Three weeks? A month?" She hissed. "What does time matter when you are locked underground? But you are a fine fellow, you would not understand."

He straightened out his shoulders, seeming to brace himself. He pursed his lips before replying, "You think you know me, Chastain?"

She looked him straight in the eyes, answering, "I do not know anything about you, _monsieur_, and you do not know anything about me."

"That is Inspector to you, wretch," he snapped. "And I know about you. But there is no need to discuss your records. I came in here assuming you had been broken."

Then she laughed, "Of course not. Who gave you such a ludicrous idea?"

He ignored her question. He did not play the fool – he had never played the fool, even growing up. The young woman was indeed a _gamin_, her will to never conform blatant. "Perhaps," he began slowly, "if you had been more polite, I might have been more inclined to shorten your sentence."

Genevieve did not stir. She did not blink, her eyes did not widen, her lips remained pressed firmly together. She folded her arms across her chest, saying with a sigh, "Why do you assume me stupid? You do not bend the rules for anyone, good _Inspector_."

Although she was not completely sure, Genevieve thought she could see the smallest twitching of his lips. He had found her reply amusing, but his demeanor would not allow him to engage in such provincial banter. Instead, Javert brought a hand up to his chest, palm spread wide over his dark coat. His steely frown returned, he turned on his heel, and headed out of the cell. Genevieve followed him carefully, but boldly.

"You are quite right, Chastain," he announced.

The door of her jail cell was slammed in front of her face. She reached out and clung to the bars, watching the inspector intently. Javert did not look back at her, only continued on his way back to the aboveground. The gendarme remained. He stole a glance at the prisoner. She was gazing back at him affectionately, her lips curled in the most devious smile.

Then Genevieve slowly turned and sensually slid back to the corner.

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For the simple reason of appearance, this message - which I would've placed at the _start_ of this chapter - has been shoved into the bottom. Let us just say I'm picky. But enough about me. I wanted to thank my one gracious reviewer, my two subscribers, and the two people who have added my work to their favorites. I'm new here, although I've been reading fanfiction since intermediate school (a _long _time ago) and only this year have decided to actually publish my stories. I really appreciate the support. Thank you.


	3. Chapter 3

The gendarmes never truly knew what she was planning, and by the end of the fourth week, all were quite suspicious. She had begun to eat, to keep herself fairly clean, to strike a conversation with any gendarme who would be currently watching her. Yet the entire time, her mind seemed to be somewhere certainly far off. Gears were turning, preoccupying her thoughts. She appeared cheerful, hopeful, as if the key to her freedom were to simply flutter to her feet at any moment.

In such deep moments of bemusements, any idea is plausible. A man can find the ability to sprout wings and fly reasonable, as long as the need for flight is there. Mythical beasts are sensible, as long as the need for explanation of natural or mysterious occurrences exist. Genevieve was in the typical daydreaming slump. She had thought for so long about her release, that freedom had actually materialized. She had tripped and fell into a snare her own mind had set. Genevieve was simply the victim, the lure freedom, and the cold, unforgiving ruse, reality.

Javert was alerted of her strange behavior. He looked on at the gendarme with detachment; he did not care about the guard, nor did he care about the information presented. He assured the gendarme the criminal was simply adjusting to her new surroundings.

"She's simply acting or she's gone insane," the inspector observed. "She must have realized her freedom has become unattainable, then. Even after the seventy-two day sentence."

Outside the constabulary building, the world continued to turn. The first lesson for the convict: life will not wait. People soon forget a face they do not constantly see.

But Danniell waited.

When Genevieve did not pass through the café as usual, he was the first to notice. Her coming had become a rhythm to him, so when the beat was broken, he instantly took note. His little life as a young man was uninhibited without a young woman.

A cluster of growling grey clouds had rolled into Montreuil, rain steadily starting to plaster the streets when he burst into the front office of an official building unbeknownst to him. The wind, which had begun to blow in bursts, whipped the door shut. He was faced with a gawking gendarme.

"Sir?"

"Bonsoir, my name is Danniell. Would you mind telling me where I've landed, exactly?"

The gendarme eyed his wet and ruffled blonde hair, his damp and wrinkled clothes. He placed both elbows on the desk before him. He cocked his head to the side arrogantly. "You've stumbled into the police station, monsieur."

"Have I?" Danniell absentmindedly scratched his clean shaven chin.

"Oui."

"Do you mind if I wait here for the storm to calm?"

"Non."

Danniell proceeded to take off his heavy coat, draping the musty smelling material over one arm. He leaned against the wall, smiling the entire time like an infallible puppy. The gendarme gave an irritated huff at the young man and went back to his paperwork.

Suddenly Danniell gave a violent start, which startled the gendarme. The young man rushed the desk, making the official stagger back from his chair defensively. His searching blue eyes were as clear as day as he eagerly stared at the gendarme. Every ounce of pompousness had fled from the now nervous gendarme, who could barely match the other man's towering stature.

"M-monsieur?"

"You wouldn't happen to know the whereabouts of Mademoiselle Genevieve Chastain, would you?"

The gendarme perked up at the mention of such a particular name. He relaxed slightly, settling himself back into the chair. The young man was obviously looking for the prisoner. "I do. But what relation does monsieur have with mademoiselle?"

Danniell sighed, "I am her lover."

"Ah." The older man appeared to need a moment to digest the new information – which would later morph into the newest piece of blather. He straightened out his surprised expression, forcing his face to be long and serious. Skeptical. "So monsieur realizes that mademoiselle has been arrested for theft?"

Danniell eyed the officer, straightening out his own face in the same manner. He even stood straighter. The conversation had just become a game. "Bless her heart," he cried. "That is indeed my Genevieve. I love her so, and yet she cannot keep herself from trouble. You see monsieur, she had a shady childhood which sometimes prompts her to act out, but we try our best. Is there any way I may see her?"

Amused by the fib, but too naïve to identify it, the gendarme was speechless for a few seconds. He stood quickly and gravely, as if he had been notified of a family tragedy. "Give me a moment."

He rushed from the main room.

The excited officer returned with a stoic Javert.

"Inspector," Danniell tried, "please let me see my love."

Javert observed the boy like a wolf sizing up possible prey. He crossed his arms over his chest, unmoved. "The prisoner did not once mention having a relationship."

Danniell swallowed, realizing he could not play the field so easily with the inspector. "We made a decision long ago that we would not freely speak of one another. It is a little secret we share."

"You cannot see her," Javert hissed, disregarding what would have been a sentimental piece of information. He turned to leave.

"I will pay bail in full right now."

The inspector turned back around, his eyes boring into the young man. "There is no set bail. She is to serve out her seventy-two day sentence. You may see her at the end."

"Please, monsieur, you do not understand!"

Javert tensed. The comment had thrown him off guard, but he quickly regained his composure. Even when surprised, he displayed very slight emotion. "I understand the meaning of the law."

"Inspector," Danniell growled, frustrated. "I think it best for you to stop meddling in the one affair you have never delved in."

The entire scene felt as if it had been paused. Life had been put on hold for the convenience of thoughts and emotions. Both approaches required time to catch up with the moment. The gendarme was sure not to glance at his superior, knowing the comment had hit home. Danniell was amazed at himself for having blabbed such a bold statement. Javert remained still, the slow movement of his chest the only sign of life. The bold young man had just humiliated the resilient inspector in front of a subordinate who was a surefire telltale. The only sound was that of the steady rain slapping against the roof and windows.

"No bail," Javert breathed before giving a few short nods.

"Inspector, non," Danniell groaned.

Javert exited.

Danniell fixed his gaze on the spot where the inspector had been standing. He appeared to be in deep thought. The gendarme did not want to rouse him, fearing the young man utterly infuriated at the result of his attempt to free his lover.

"I will be back."

In his reverie, he had completely forgotten about the imposing storm. The officer watched as Danniell hurriedly strode into the street, rain beginning to soak through his coat; still draped over his arm. He did not fear the inspector. Once in a while the inspector might be righteous, but he had surely faltered when he arrested Genevieve. _Authority is a lie, another imitation of the government to hide their ever increasing illicit activities._

* * *

I want to apologize for this being such a short chapter. I wrote this while working my summer job, so I'm sorry if it's not adequate! I hope this charming young man wasn't forgotten! I know, I'm sort of taking the story down a weird path. But don't worry - I'm hoping to push it back on track soon. As always, thank you for the support.


	4. Chapter 4

The next day, Genevieve Chastain was released. Javert stood, shrouded in a silent anger which all could sense, as a gendarme loosened her shackles. Genevieve, Danniell, Javert, a group of curious gendarmes, and the new mayor of Montreuil-sur-mer crowded the inspector's precipitously small office. Danniell anxiously clasped Genevieve's hands, her eyes wide, but her face one unfeeling mask. The new mayor – a shady yet trusted and loved man – looked on earnestly at the two young people. Javert was facing the two, although he could not stop himself from stealing small glances at the mayor. The man seemed so familiar, but the inspector could not place him. He reminded himself just how much the people of Montreuil-sur-mer esteemed him, quickly pushing aside any sudden doubts.

"There," the mayor proclaimed as the last piece of the shackles was removed. "I apologize for such a misunderstanding. I hope you two can be relieved and go back to your normal lives. If I had been notified sooner, I would have stopped this fault earlier. But, no matter – Mademoiselle Chastain, you are released."

"Thank you, Monsieur Mayor," Genevieve answered gleefully.

"Yes, thank you," Danniell added. "I did not mean to bother you, as I know you are very busy molding Montreuil into a productive and vigorous town."

"It is of no consequence, I assure you. My job is to answer to the people."

The mayor turned his soulful brown eyes onto Javert. The inspector returned his stare, his light eyes seeming to reflect his inner tumult of emotions. He felt as if the mayor could see right through him, but held his gaze.

"Inspector Javert, I am disappointed that this has happened."

Javert gave a small bow out of courtesy. "Monsieur Mayor, may I admit that Mademoiselle Chastain was indeed outside the perimeter of the law when the gendarmes arrested her."

The mayor sighed, "Look at these two young people, Inspector Javert. Both are just trying to make a living. If Mademoiselle Chastain has stolen, well, let the item be returned and let her theft be forgiven. Life can prompt people to commit crimes."

"But what she did was not right," Javert interjected.

"Just let these two youngsters be," the mayor replied, raising a contemplative eyebrow toward the inspector. He looked over at the two. "They will be righteous citizens from now on."

Danniell smiled weakly. "Oh yes, Monsieur Mayor."

"Thank you," Genevieve added quietly.

"Shall we leave, dearest?" Danniell offered his arm.

Javert observed Genevieve as she hesitantly reached out and uncomfortably took his arm. She looked as if the boy had just asked her if she wanted to lick the horrid coat he was carrying over his other arm. She did not appear to be a young woman just _rescued _by a cherished lover. In fact, to Javert, she looked as if she were being arrested again. He had been so concerned with her demeanor; he did not even realize his eyebrows were furrowed and that he was biting the inside of his bottom lip pensively. Only when Genevieve turned and glanced back at him did he realize his own expression. The door of his office slammed shut, the sound stirring him into contemplation. His mind completely occupied, he did not even notice the mayor's presence for the rest of his goodwill visit.

Outside, Danniell possessively held her hand. Neither spoke as they walked out of the station. The storm had settled for good over Montreuil-sur-mer, soaking, overflowing, drowning. The town had not seen the sun in over twenty-four hours. Holding the door open with his body, Danniell handed Genevieve his coat to shield herself from the downpour. She stared at his proffered coat, before her eyes roamed up to his hopeful face. She gave a snort and snatched the article of clothing. He motioned his arm for her to exit first. Genevieve stepped out, the chilly wind slapping her in the face - it was as if she had returned to life after being contained in a tomb. She thrust the coat over her head and waited for him.

The door of the constabulary building shut. Danniell slipped to her side.

"Why the hell did you do that?"

Her voice was so gruff, so angry, that Danniell thought he felt his heart stop. He gazed at her in absolute shock. "What?"

"I did not need to be saved. I was handling myself. Why do you constantly feel the need to meddle? Meddle, meddle, meddle!" Genevieve growled. "Now I'm humiliated. I look terrible for needing to be spared by some young man. I am a thief! I am a _thief_! What do not you understand about that? In a few weeks – or even days – I'll probably be arrested again. Monsieur, you are a complete idiot."

When utterly infatuated, it is quite difficult for one to become angered. Life is viewed through rose-tinted glasses. Even when furious, Danniell still believed Genevieve to be beautiful. He studied her features rather than listened to her words. To him, she was not mad with him. She was simply mad with her entire situation. Her situation being that she had to steal to live. He loved her. He pitied her.

Danniell grabbed her hands, holding them tightly. "Genevieve, stop. If you would only acknowledge my love for you, we could be together. I could support you. You wouldn't have to steal. Did you see what I did for you back there? I _lied_ for you. And trust me; I would have done so much more."

Genevieve yanked her hands out from his. "You are just like that imprudent inspector! You think you know me. Yet you only know about me through paper!"

"I am nothing like him," Danniell retorted. "I love you, Genevieve."

She handed his coat back, pushing it into his chest. "Listen monsieur, I acknowledge the fact that you have gotten me out of jail. But I am not thankful."

Danniell clutched his coat like a drowning man clinging to a piece of wood. His once unfailing expression of contentment changed into a hardened mask; his eyes remained bright and hopeful. "Why?" He managed to choke out.

Genevieve placed a hand on his shoulder, before her small hand swept up to his cheek. She stroked the smooth skin there with her thumb. "I am sorry monsieur, but you need to understand that I cannot be with someone like you."

"Because I am not some toughened _gamin_?"

Genevieve released his face, her own having become a crumpled onset of emotion – anger, irritation, confusion. She just wanted to slap him, make him realize his love for her was a mistake. She could not love him because she did not want to ruin him. Genevieve felt as if she were struggling to keep a closet full of catastrophe and debt closed, and to love the young man was to swing the door wide open.

"Go home," she barked. "I do not want to see you around, entendu?"

Danniell opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, but stopped himself. He quickly slipped his coat on and headed down the isolated street. Genevieve watched him go, slightly relieved that she had both gotten rid of the pesky young man and kept him out of danger. Although she had not realized just how alone she was until he was completely out of sight. Behind her, the constabulary building loomed, silent and imposing.

Without another thought, Genevieve ran down the street, making sure to go the opposite way of the young man. She wanted to get away from that damned building and the damned inspector which it contained.

* * *

I realize this chapter was quite short. I simply thought it best not to linger on Danniell. He is another OC, and I don't want a whole bunch roaming around this story. Even though I believed him to be a necessary element. I want to (and will) get back to Genevieve and Javert. As always, thank you.


	5. Chapter 5

This note is up at the top as a warning. Chapter contains swearing and violence. As always, thank you.

* * *

After her escape – as Genevieve preferred to call the event – she was wary of her wishes and handled her hopes cautiously. For just as she had begun to actually aspire for release from jail, the young man had appeared out of thin air. Her only lesson from the entire ordeal: to be more proficient when attempting a theft. She would have mentally beaten herself over getting arrested, but the need for money soon consumed her thoughts. Genevieve was a wild animal, released back into her natural habitat. She needed to get back onto her feet.

Luckily for Genevieve, she was indeed impressively beautiful. Once she was able to wash the dirt and grime from her alabaster flesh, business picked up. However, the trouble in which she got herself into increased as well. Genevieve was constantly clashing with the other unfortunate, damaged souls trying to live out on the streets. Most of the thieves, the addicts, the rapists, were men. They did not appreciate a woman trying to intrude on their dealings. Especially a woman who had been caught before. She was inexperienced, she was a risk.

"I don't want to see you roaming around these parts," a man dressed in tattered clothes with a cap pulled low over his beady eyes snarled at her. "I swear, if you come around one more time, I'm going to get rid of you myself."

Genevieve picked herself off the ground where she had been resting near a pile of wood in an alleyway. "Fuck off," she growled. "I used to get respect from you lowlifes."

"Yeah," another filthy man added, coming to the side of the first one. "Until you got yourself arrested. We ain't got no respect for a scrawny bitch."

She rushed up to the two men, standing on her tip-toes to bring her face closer to theirs. "Well, I don't have any respect for fucking men who've got no balls." A smirk slowly spread through her lips. "You all just sit around on your asses all day. You complain about money – you don't do shit."

One of the men drew back his hand, brining it down across her cheek. Her entire body moved with the force of the impact, and she fell to her knees. The two men gazed down upon her, others beginning to gather due to the commotion. Before long, she was surrounded by men who all appeared to have crawled right out onto the street from the gutter. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand, a small cut on her lower lip oozing a trail of blood.

"Shut up, whore." The man who had slapped her snarled. "Don't you dare speak like you're one of us."

"We don't put up with bigheaded assholes very long," another added.

Genevieve stood shakily.

A third man shoved her roughly. "Go back to your work whore! Let the men do their job! We don't need you 'round here trying to sully everything with your weakness!"

"And what would I sully? Your plans? You guys haven't done shit." Genevieve was slowly backing out of the alleyway and toward the street.

"Shut up! For your information, we do have a plan. A big one. One that'll make up for all these months spent in hiding."

"What?" Genevieve spat.

The man who had slapped her crossed his arms over his chest, beaming. "We're going to murder Inspector Javert. Teach the damned police force a thing or two. Earn a few sous."

Genevieve froze. She gazed on at the hideous dogs in complete disgust and disappointment. She had no feelings for the inspector – in fact, she did not really care if he were alive or dead. But to hear the people whom she surrounded herself with speak such gruesome words – she felt her stomach churn.

"You all are sick."

An entirely different man, a skinny boy about her age, waltzed right up to her. He threw a jacketed arm around her shoulders. "Isn't it a beautiful plan? We know exactly how we're going to kill him too." He sighed as if he were explaining a splendid dream. "We also have plans for that body of his. Perhaps his head would make a lovely gift for that quaint troupe of gendarmes."

Genevieve shrugged the boy off. "What are you going to prove by that?"

"That you don't fuck with seasoned criminals."

"He isn't fucking with anyone."

Genevieve's eyes widened at her words. Why would she ever defend the inspector? No, she was not defending Javert; she was simply trying to deter a group of bloodthirsty criminals. She would have done the same if they had proposed to murder the young monsieur who had hastened her escape a week earlier. If life is obviously threatened before you, is it not your duty to help? Her head had started to spin. She felt suddenly confused and sick.

"Why are you defending him?" The boy reached out and grabbed her wrist.

Genevieve tried to free herself from him, but his grip was too much for her to conquer. "Trust me, I'm not defending him. He threw my ass in jail. I know his agenda."

The boy pulled her close, ignoring her anxious struggle. "Ah, so you wouldn't mind helping us?" He contemplated her, before burying his face in her hair.

She could feel her heart pounding in her throat. Genevieve was surprised. She had never felt frightened around these dogs – she had always held her own. Suddenly she found herself worried for her next move. She cleared her throat. "Why don't you let me go, and then we can talk more about this smooth plan of yours?"

"That isn't an adequate answer."

Genevieve made to flee, but his grasp on her wrist had stopped her. Now she stood the farthest she possibly could from him, his eyes glued to her like a viper about to strike. Her hair was tousled about her face. She could feel the sweat at the base of her neck. The boy began to yank her toward him, as if her arm were nothing more than a thick piece of rope. Genevieve cried out, but his hand silenced her. His hold on her wrist had transformed into a vicious chokehold.

"We could always practice on you first," the boy said thoughtfully.

"No," she gasped, both hands clawing at the arm around her neck.

The man who had slapped her appeared again, walking toward them, a skinny, almost sickly looking knife perched in his filthy hand. Genevieve started to struggle anew, kicking her legs wildly.

"You know," the boy announced, "we were going to wait a bit before attacking the inspector. But you've really piqued our appetite for blood. I think we're ready to attack sooner than we thought."

Then a rag was pressed against her nose. Her vision started to swim, her eyelids heavy.

Genevieve woke, her head lolled weakly against her shoulder. She could feel her heart beating slow and steady. Her hands were on either side of her body, her legs sprawled slightly open. Her feet were bare. Wetness had started to gather at the corners of her eyes, although she was not surprised to see the makeshift dress she had been wearing bunched around her waist. She swore with a suddenly caustic French tongue.

The entire backstreet was dark and deserted; the only light that of the unfeeling stars hovering above. She brought a hand to her forehead as she attempted to stand and used the wall she had been dumped against to brace herself. Only when a warm fluid began to trickle down her arms did she realize both wrists had been slashed. She cried out, although the wounds were not deep enough to kill. Ripping two pieces of stained material from her dress, she bound her wrists and continued to dress herself.

She had been in this predicament before. Yet she felt absolutely disoriented as she wandered out from the alley. She had awoken disoriented and abused before, even in the middle of the day. But Genevieve still felt as if she had collapsed onto the lowest point of her life. She knew better than to allow her mind to wonder just what types of sick sexual acts they had submitted her to while she had been unconscious. Only a few steps away from the alley, Genevieve crouched over in the street and proceeded to empty her stomach out onto the road.

She was shaking, exhausted, sore, in a fragile, drained state. Genevieve could barely walk, but trudged on. Where she was headed, she had no idea. Usually after such events she would return to her room, curl up with a bottle of absinthe, and hopefully pass out. With her lack of money, the only option she had was to walk. She believed she would walk until sunrise, if she did not collapse in some corner first.

A pattering caught her attention. The noise was coming from behind, coming upon her quickly. Genevieve could not bear to turn her head – the muscles in her neck were already strained and tight. So she waited for the source of the sound to pass.

Instead the source stopped right beside her.

"Genevieve?"

She looked on at the young little _gamin_ with eyes completely glossed over with misery.

"What happened? Why're you out here all alone?" He eyed the material bound around her wrists. A dark liquid had seeped through them. "Genevieve, you need help."

She ignored his questions and comment. "Where are you going at this hour?"

The boy – not more than nine years old – perked up. "I'm headed to the old abandoned warehouse. I heard the big dogs got that slimy inspector all locked up! I wanna watch the action! I heard they're gonna tear him limb from limb!"

Genevieve closed her eyes. The criminals had managed to snag Inspector Javert. She would have forgotten about their whole plan if not for the ignorant _gamin_ passing by.

"Go on your way."

"But Genevieve, you need help."

"Get."

The little boy hurriedly took off, not giving a second thought to an injured young woman. The streets were brutal, taking the human soul and molding it into a completely narcissistic monster.

Steeling herself, Genevieve disregarded her screaming limbs, crying wounds, and ran full speed toward the warehouse. The _gamin_ had been swallowed by the night; she could no longer hear the pattering of his feet or even see a faint shadow ahead. The warehouse was just slightly outside the town, isolated in some overgrown field. Running, she could reach the granary in ten minutes.

Genevieve knew she was going against everything she had worked toward in her roughened life by going to the warehouse. If she were a true hardened criminal, she would had realized her place and stayed away. She reminded herself she felt nothing toward Inspector Javert. She just could not fathom a life – a life so enamored with a righteous passion – being taken so brutally by men whose only passion was murder. The inspector had just as much a right to live as she did. And the fact that she was not dead after being assaulted convinced her she indeed had a right to live.


	6. Chapter 6

The noise in the warehouse was tremendous; full of guffawing men, as if a group of squawking mockingbirds had been shut up in the worn building. Light blazed brightly from inside, casting lattice shadows across the dry grass. Genevieve discovered an unguarded front door, and squeezed herself up against it. She swallowed, trying to steady her heart beat and the threatening node which had suddenly arisen in her throat. By the amount of excited chatter, Genevieve assumed the criminals were both drinking heavily and taking their sweet time playing with the inspector.

Steeling herself, she clutched the door and peered in.

The men were all quite pleasant, as if they were simply celebrating their fearsome existence. Bottles of beer were carelessly passed around, all shared, all drank. Genevieve even caught a glance of the puny _gamin_ stealing a few sips. Her heart slowed when she could not find the inspector, although she found the slight surprise relieving. Either he was already dead, or they were saving his unfortunate hide for later. If he were already dead, well, then she only had to drag her sorry body to a safe place and sleep. But something told her the inspector was not.

Sneaking inside was easy. She simply slid through the two open doors, and scampered into some shaded corner. Genevieve was so reassured to be inside the warehouse, getting back out had slipped her mind. The men continued with their merrymaking.

She found Javert tied securely to one of the large, rotting wooden posts.

A few loose strands of hair were strewn against his face, clothes both dusty and disorderly, boots scuffed. His head was down, his chin pressing against his chest. She observed him from afar at first, curiosity getting the best of her sensibility. She could tell he had been roughed up. Blood, dark patches against his dark blue uniform, were splattered everywhere. He had a puddle at his cravat and a puddle forming in the dirt beneath his feet. Taking a closer look, she found him to be unconscious.

Never in all her life had Genevieve been so terrified, so horribly appalled.

Javert was no longer the inspector. He had suddenly become human, living, breathing, and fallible. She continued to stare, completely stunned. She would have never dreamed of saving the man responsible for her arrest. Now Genevieve felt the urge to reach out and comfort him. Her heart suddenly ruled her head.

The first action she took was cutting him loose from the post. Luckily his brawn hid her from sight as she knelt behind him, hands hurriedly working at the knots. She threw the ropes aside as soon as the knots gave, rushing to steady the comatose inspector. He was heavier than she expected, despite her having realized how much larger he was. His head and chest lolled against her shoulder, and she gave a low grunt as she attempted to carry him on her back.

Blood began to trickle from his wounds onto her neck and arms, her own wounds on her wrists bleeding from the strain. Genevieve said some inaudible words she barely understood; probably intended to ease her nerves. She slowly made her sluggish move toward the back of the warehouse, assuming the back door to be a safer exit than the front.

Genevieve was fifteen feet from the unguarded back door, sweat starting to drip from her brow and into her eyes, when one of the men just happened to look up.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

She gave a startled jump at his yelp. The man was obviously inebriated, a bottle of some disgusting alcoholic drink clutched in his hand. Tired, her muscles screamed for release under the massive weight of the inspector, she stared at the man callously.

"I'm leaving."

"Non. Not when I'm sitting here."

Genevieve turned to face the man straight on. "Monsieur, I am leaving and that is that. I am taking the inspector with me. You will not talk of this to anyone."

She pulled out an impressive handful of sous from her pocket. All the money she had earned since being released from jail. Not enough to afford rent, but enough to pacify. She threw the money at the man, who ravenously rushed forward and collected the coins.

Since Genevieve had no room, had been living off the street, once she was outside the warehouse, she had no place to go. She would have to walk back into town and figure out a solution. But first, she fell over onto the ground with exhaustion, disregarding the unconscious body. Genevieve knew she could not stay long, so she pulled the inspector back onto her back and continued her arduous walk. By the time she was back in town, her muscles had gone numb.

She repeated the same thought like a mantra, _get to a safe place, get help._

The keys to the police station were tucked away in Javert's pocket. Genevieve kicked the door open, before taking the time to lock it again, once inside. She would have never thought the safe place would have been the now empty constabulary building. She would have sneered at the thought if she had not been so worn.

His weight seeming to bear down upon her more than ever, Genevieve could not find it in her to place him on the floor as his resting place. Instead, she made her way into his office, nosily and violently shooing all the items from the desk off. A whirlwind of papers scattered around them, before drifting to gently rest on the floor. The desk would not have been her first option, but Genevieve knew desperation. The desk was no longer a desk, it was a bed.

She was thankful the desk was just long enough for Javert.

Genevieve breathed a sigh of relief, both for her strained muscles and for the inspector. She collapsed beneath the desk, face pressed against her upturned palms. If someone had seen this somber scene, they would have believed the young woman to be praying. When she felt her heart calm, the anxiety dissolve from her veins, and her brain seeming to think again, she went in search of a candle. Genevieve lit the candle and knelt, her forearms crisscrossed on the desk. She studied the inspector.

When sleeping, his face lost all of its harshness. He was just another man. His eyelashes were quite long, and brushed against his cheekbones. His eyebrows were no longer furrowed. Genevieve quietly wondered to herself if he ever looked so tranquil during the day. Definitely not, for the inspector appeared to only know one facial expression: frowning. But she found it odd that she was relieved to see his face had not been marred by the criminals. His present injuries came to mind.

Genevieve almost thought it a sin to remove his cravat. Javert was always so orderly, she felt guilty for dismembering his normally neat uniform. But she pushed such thoughts aside, steeled herself, and began to peel the uniform off the inspector. A few minutes later, all his clothes, except his trousers, were folded neatly by the door. The blood had already started to coarsen on the material, his wounds trying to coagulate. Genevieve had found supplies tucked away in a drawer, and without missing a beat, bandaged up his wounds by candlelight.

His muscles were still beneath his smooth skin. She was cleaning a shallow wound on his side when she noticed just how toned the inspector was. Her soulful brown eyes soon left the wound, roaming up his side, to the light dusting of hair which ran from his chest to below his belt. Genevieve was no stranger to nudity – men, women, she had had her share in life – but gazing upon the inspector kindled an impish feeling within her. As her eyes lingered on his belt buckle as if she were challenging it to a stare down, she found her face becoming uncomfortably warm. Shaking her head as if rousing from a dream, Genevieve redirected her attention back to the wound. She would have none of _that_. Oh no, she had already disobeyed her criminal instincts tooth and nail to save him. If she were to give in, that would certainly be the end of the unlawful morals she held herself to.

Genevieve finished bandaging the wound, licking her lips nervously. Genevieve Chastain was not a nervous soul – she went throughout life confidently. She was sure of herself, secure in her being. A few moments of semi-nudity could not possibly turn her into a speechless, apprehensive, pile of withering flesh. Well, perhaps she could falter in confidence during certain situations. Although she prayed herself to at least be strong enough to be confident in her actions. The candle burned away tirelessly in the corner, as if waiting for a decision.

Under the dim orange glow from the candle, Genevieve continued to religiously dress his wounds. Most of the injuries had been sustained on his abdomen, chest, and neck. The neck wound, along with a fairly deep gash across his stomach, had been responsible for the copious amount of blood. Then she discovered another wound on the back of his head. The inspector had probably been knocked unconscious with some blunt object. Genevieve cleaned the injury and wrapped his head. She had untied his hair, and now the long silken locks caressed his shoulders and the table.

Shaking, she ran a delicate hand through his hair.


	7. Chapter 7

This is where my M rating comes into effect. I may not update as qucikly, for school is about to start. But I'll try! Thank you.

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Javert stirred, uneasily awaking to a pressure against his hips. He had to squint a few times into the darkness before he comprehended the situation. He was in his office, the faint smell of smoke signifying an extinguished candle. His back was stiff, his muscles strained. Javert let an arm flop over the side of the desk, fingers gracing the floor beneath. Now he realized where he was, the obviously missing items from his desk making him panic. He tried to sit up, the sharp sting in his abdomen, along with the still-present weight on his hips staying him. His hands started to travel up and down his body, then to his head, as he felt the bandages and grew ever more confused. Javert wished to call out, say something, but knew he would feel unbelievably foolish when no one answered.

A small hand on his chest made him freeze.

"You are safe, Inspector."

He sighed in relief, desperately trying to ignore the tingling which was racing up and down his spine. "Est-ce que vous, Chastain?"

Genevieve nodded, although she knew he could not see her through the darkness. "Oui, n'ayez pas peur. Vous êtes blessé."

Javert was silent, and if the candle had been still burning, Genevieve would have seen him staring at her in an irritated state of disbelief. He swallowed, inhaled deeply. "Donc, nous sommes encore, alors."

"Je suppose que." Genevieve shrugged in the darkness. "We have both, in some way, betrayed the one thing which dominates our lives. Comment miseraable."

"Did you know those rouges were planning to attack me?"

"Oui. Before they decided to attack me first."

Now Javert was completely still, no more malleable than a wooden board. There was a sudden flood of emotions which enabled him unresponsive. He was not sure if he felt sympathy for the young woman before him. She was only a _gamin_, after all. Those from the streets were attacked all the time and he felt no empathy toward them – why should he suddenly feel compassion for Chastain?

The hand which had been pressed against his chest had wrapped around his throat.

"It's so strange to think, Inspector Javert, how easy it would be for me to kill you right here, this very instant."

A smirk slowly spread across his face. Of course the girl would not have gone soft. She may have saved him from her own kind, taking on the role of the black sheep in the herd. But Chastain had not gone completely lenient on the backward morals she held herself to. He was prepared to die, although Javert had never thought his death would be so unconventional for one in the police force.

"You make no sense. Why would you go through all the trouble of rescuing me from rouges only to murder me yourself?"

Her grip on his throat tightened and she felt his pulse quicken under her palm. For a man with a truly unfeeling front, he was not prepared to die. His pulse had become a delicate butterfly in her hand, fluttering and insecure. Genevieve was in awe.

"If I were to murder you all on my own, I would regain respect. Regain the respect you took away by placing me in jail."

"Go ahead. I would do the same, were I in your position and had the opportunity."

Javert gave a short sigh, before adjusting his head so that more of his neck was bared to Genevieve. She could not see, but knew his expression was one of acceptance. His eyes would be raised toward the ceiling, mouth in a thin line. How could he be so complacent on the outside when he was so obviously worried?

"I should kill you here," Genevieve murmured. "If I were a true criminal, had a truly hardened heart, I would murder you – regardless of your wounds – your injured state would just make killing so much easier. But non, I cannot kill you, Inspector. I wanted to save you. I went out of my way to save you. So there, I admit I have no desire to murder you."

"Vous avez fait la justice."

Genevieve gave a loud defeated huff, her grip on his neck loosening. Her thumb had started to stroke his throbbing jugular. "And I am going to kill myself over it, Inspector Javert."

Painstakingly slowly, riddled with fear of rejection, Genevieve leaned forward. She paused when their noses were less than an inch apart. Their breaths mingled, she felt his warm exhales against her face, and he, hers. Genevieve closed her eyes; feeling his pulse under her palm and listening to his breathing create a soulful beat. Gently, as if she were afraid to frighten him, she placed her lips against his. The kiss was chaste, and for the first time in a great while, Genevieve felt a twinge of excitement.

Javert lifted a hand to the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her cascading locks and crushing her lips against his. Her mouth tasted of the snub he kept hidden in his desk drawer. He could not recall the last time he kissed a woman – probably in some delirious moment as a young adult. Javert nipped at her succulent bottom lip, Genevieve responding by parting her lips slightly, granting his hot tongue entrance. All the while, he felt as if something unyielding, something known as the taciturn persona he embodied was withdrawing. Genevieve was much younger than he, radiating the vigorous warmth his chilled personality craved. If only for a few minutes.

Genevieve gave a small cry as Javert's mouth slid from her own to her neck. She let go of his neck with the movement of a drowning man. All the men she had ever been with had been carelessly rough, with their mind set on only one goal – to finish. None had ever taken the time to explore her throat and jaw bone. Now he sucked at her throat, amused by the idea of leaving a red angry mark which was sure to appear tomorrow on her delicate flesh.

She clutched his free hand, guiding him into her chemise, as she had removed her bodice, corset cover, and corset before he had awoken. Genevieve placed his hand on her breast. Javert mindlessly caressed his thumb back and forth, making her nipple harden. He had forgotten such sensation – activities he had labeled as unproductive and worthless. He had lost his virginity, but in what had become the first and last time he had sex. Genevieve leaned into his touch, her breast fairly large and filling his hand completely. Javert's other hand swooped down from her head to yank her petticoat down, exposing her alabaster skin, even though he could not see her through the dark.

His hand then settled on the back of her thigh, pushing her up his body until she had to place her hands on either side of his head to balance. Javert was thankful that Genevieve was quite light, as he remembered the wound on his abdomen. Her breasts were displayed before him, both nipples hardened in arousal and facing downward. He took one into his mouth, alternating between sucking and lightly grating his teeth against the bud. Genevieve gave faint moans as she felt a familiar throbbing between her legs. She started to unconsciously spread her legs, knees precariously perched on the edge of the table, Javert's own arousal brushing against her lacy pantalets hidden under her skirt.

_What are you doing? This woman is a whore. You are associating yourself with a tramp._

Javert kissed the side of Genevieve's breast, before moving to her other nipple. His mind was swimming in an overwhelming mixture of hatred for himself, surprise at Genevieve, and their pleasurable provocation.

_I will only have her for a night. No one will find out._

_ But you are better than this, Javert._

Genevieve moved her hips against him, stirring him from his contemplation. Her back was bent inward, her head raised, mouth open as she made the most carnal sounds. Javert had the sudden urge to buck up and into her warmth. He gave her nipple a final suck, before kissing the small expanse between her breasts. He felt her heart beating against his lips. Genevieve pulled away from him as she sat up, cautiously balancing herself on his hips.

In a strange struggle, she reached under her skirt and pulled her pantalets down past her knees. Once the silken material was bunched around her calves, and stretched across the lower part of his thighs, Genevieve began to unbuckle his belt and unbutton his trousers. Javert thought about stopping her, or keeping his dignity, but he was no longer thinking clearly or thinking with his head. He had denied himself far too long and now one young woman was about to grant him release.

She yanked down his trousers; he quickly inhaled at the feeling of no longer having his arousal confined. Then Genevieve went silent and still, as far as he could tell through the darkness. Javert nearly jumped when she placed her damp hand around his shaft and began to stroke. His own hands ran up and down her soft backside, before pushing her toward his need. He did not want to be stroked to completion. He was not disregarding his beliefs for one senseless night of stroking. If he was going to disobey, he wanted Genevieve.

She caught his hint and settled right onto him. Both were silent as the initial shock flooded their senses. She was tight, warm, and slick – ready to take him in – she clenched around him senselessly. He was thick, warm, and slick – filling her completely – he gave a low growl at her tautness. Genevieve placed both hands on either side of his hips and began to rock back and forth. Her breathing came out in shallow huffs, and he could no longer stifle the moan which had been dying to escape since they had kissed.

She ran a hand down the side of his body, the little bit of sweat which had formed along there sticking to her fingers. Then she leaned back as her hand slid between her milky thighs. Genevieve massaged her clitoris, the stimulation making her move faster against him. His hands were clenched onto her backside, holding her down possessively. She continued to thrust, her free hand leaving the table to grab onto his hip. Her dark locks started to stick to the light sweat across her face.

"Javert," she breathed.

The sound of his name nearly pushed him right from the precipice he was so warily balancing on. Genevieve rocked her hips a few more times, until she went stiff, crying out his name as her orgasm made her repeatedly contract around him. Javert came a few seconds later, spilling himself into her with a soft groan.

Shakily breathing in the aftermath of their orgasms, Genevieve collapsed onto his chest with a sigh. His grip had loosened on her backside, and now his hands slid up her back to burry themselves in her hair. Javert felt oddly at peace, relieved of all his previous sexual tension which had begun to eat away at him. For a moment, he had an inkling of appreciation toward the _gamin_, though only for the fact she had given him sex.

But he was not thankful for her sudden closeness.

"Chastain," he said steadily, "I hope you are going to remove yourself from me soon."

She ignored his comment, murmuring, "But Inspector, I like staying this way."

Then she gently moved against him, and he realized he was still inside her, although he was too tired to want to stop her. He stared off into the darkness, ears straining against the absolute stillness of the night, before falling asleep.

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As a side note, I realize the French here is not going to be correct - heck - I used a translator on my cell. However, when I use it, I'm just trying to create an effect. What's being said doesn't have to be understood :)


	8. Chapter 8

Another chapter where the M rating takes effect. Thank you.

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The sunlight flooded the entire office, bathing everything in a smothering yellow-orange hue. Outside the constabulary building, the world was warming. Inside the office, it was already uncomfortably heated. When Javert stirred for the second time since the previous night, he was in completely pain. The wound on his abdomen was raw and angry, his neck and back ridged. Slowly, like a man thirty years his senior, he was able to remember. When the memory was whole, the entire deed etched in his mind, he felt neither shame nor guilt. Javert simply felt like any other man. No repressed sexual tension, no chastising himself for looking at a woman in what he considered 'an inappropriate way.' He was relieved.

Yet, Javert was surprised to find Genevieve still asleep on him, although he understood the source of his stiffness. She was not heavy, but her weight had been pressing against him for over four hours, like a dead body. In her state of oblivion, Javert took a moment to steal a look at her.

He would never admit his thoughts at that moment to another living soul.

The young woman was gorgeous.

Even for a prostitute.

Even for a thief.

Even when sleeping, Genevieve's deliciously creamy skin was tinted with the most innocent blush. In the sunlight, her normally droll dark brown hair was riddled with dimensions of light and reddish brown strands. Her lips were full, naturally rosy. Although her brows were usually furrowed in suspicion or irritation – the face of a criminal – when sleeping, all the lines disappeared, her face was soft. Genevieve's face was that of guiltless young woman, a female who had her entire life ahead of her. Javert stole a glance further down her body, to jer covered rear. She moved her leg up his body; he was mesmerized by the tantalizing slipping of the material of her dress, the way her behind was propped up slightly from the new position. The fact that she was a prostitute quickly flitted from his mind. Javert only wished he could steal another glance at her breasts.

But then Genevieve awoke.

Her eyes were a smooth hazel in the morning light. Lids heavy, her gaze slowly traveled from his neck, to his face. She gave a small gasp.

"You are awake," Genevieve observed in a low tone.

"Yes. As are you."

"I meant to be gone before you awoke, _Inspector_."

A concerned look swiftly clouded his face. His eyes were dark and unreadable. "Why?"

Genevieve sat up and stretched, ignoring the cringe she felt from him at his abdomen being pressed upon. "To avoid this awkward conversation. To avoid explaining last night."

Javert hardly heard what she said – his eyes were completely focused on her chest. Her nipples were almost as rosy as her lips, both breasts straining upward against her chemise with her tense stretch. He managed a soft, "You do not need to explain."

She brought her arms back down, before slipping off of him, her bare feet slapping against the floor. Genevieve began to dress herself hurriedly. "I see your wounds need dressing again, _Inspector_."

Javert had forgotten about the situation with his trousers. He was stunned for a second to find himself shamelessly bared, his trousers bunched around his thighs. Javert speedily pulled them up, carefully buttoning all that needed to be buttoned and belting his belt. He raised himself off the desk with a groan, shakily standing. All his wounds seemed to feel much more painful when he was vertical.

Genevieve smiled to herself. "Feeling the pain now?"

"No different from last night," Javert lied, his voice calm, unmoving.

She finished dressing herself and handed him his own clothes. "Hold this. I am going to dress your wounds first, _Inspector_." She grabbed the supplies, placing them on the desk, and then peeling off the old dressings with all the tenderness of a concerned mother.

"Why must you keep saying my title in such an infuriating manner?"

Genevieve was on her knees, peeling away a bandage on his side, slightly above his hip. She stared up at him through a forest of lashes. "To recreate the lines."

Javert clenched his jaw, obviously aggravated with her cryptic answers. _Women_. He would never understand the other sex, even if he was an inspector. Was it not his job to understand the world around him? He growled, "Explain."

She cleaned his wound efficiently, bandaging it, then giving the area below his hip a little kiss. "The lines between officer and criminal were crossed last night. I am truly sorry and wish to redraw those lines."

Another impossibly stupid idea born from the mind of a _gamin_. Javert had to stop his train of thought – Chastain was right – he was way above her social class. He should demand respect from someone such as her. And beat her when she did not comply.

Genevieve had unbuttoned the buttons of his trousers he had so painstakingly fastened to his acceptable standard. She had simply ripped them open with a single tug. She placed another kiss near the trailing of hair located between his stomach and groin.

His hand found its way into her tangled, messy hair. "Who's to say I have not already redrawn the lines, Chastain? Who's to say when you try to leave, I will not create a scene and have you rearrested?"

She stood, a smirk plastered across her sultry lips. Deliberately, her quaint pink tongue ran across her lips. "Now you are just being cocky, _Inspector_."

Genevieve fell back to her knees, warm hands gripping around the base of his swelling cock. She gave the tip a quick and tiny kiss, alternating her hands between rough grasps and soft caresses. Javert gave a low moan, his free hand reaching back to hold onto the desk. His other hand pushed her toward his need, before descending to clutch at her neck, and back up again.

Agonizingly slowly, she took him into her mouth. Her hot, wet mouth. Javert waited, giving her head an encouraging shove when she went still. Genevieve still did not suck. He glimpsed at her, to find her staring up at him. She winked. He growled. Then when he was least expecting it, she began to suck, his grip on her head loosening in return.

Genevieve continued in an almost cheerful manner, as she began to coarsely pump him. Her tongue swirled around his length, around the tip. She took him deeper into his mouth – he displayed the smallest surprise – until she felt him at the back of her throat. Genevieve had done this many times before, and did the task efficiently, as if she were eating or breathing. Javert, on the other hand, was falling to pieces under her ministration. He gazed upon her with an intense need, an intense longing.

Finally, his resignation was sounded off quietly.

"Chastain, I'm going to…."

Genevieve was smugly smiling to herself on the inside. Even as he was about to come, he still would not say her first name. Informal, unbending, ridged. She lightly raked her teeth along his velvety flesh. He came with a moan, going completely limp, his chest heaving as he rode out the last waves of his orgasm.

Genevieve quickly stood, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Now I would hope you get dressed, _Inspector_. I expect the other members of the force to be arriving soon."

Javert barely had time to compose himself. He hastily pulled up his trousers, but took the time and care with buttoning each button. Then he prudently pulled on his uniform, completely oblivious to the material's current state of filthiness.

"You cannot possibly work looking like that." Genevieve handed him his large bicorne.

He stared at her, wearing the expression he had perfected – frowning. "Why not?"

She placed his hat upon his head, ignoring his obvious irritation. "If you would look down, perhaps you would notice the blood stains. But who am I to tell you what to do?"

Javert slowly glanced down, his head seeming to plop right down upon his chest like a sleeping man. He took in the stains with complete disdain. His face darkened. "Ah, yes. I require a new uniform." He headed for the door, pushing past Genevieve without a second thought.

"And may I also say," she called after him, "that you might want to take the day off? You cannot possibly work with such gruesome wounds."

He froze, door half opened before him.

"I will no longer need your help, Chastain. You are free to leave."

Genevieve waited for a few minutes, until she assumed Javert had already left the constabulary building and was headed for home. She slipped out of his office, leaving the room in disarray. Why should she clean it? She relished the idea of leaving her mark upon his neat little habitat. With the gendarmes on the cusp of starting another workday, the station was empty, and she left as easily as she had arrived.

She walked the streets in a daze, taking an opportunity to steal an apple from an unsuspecting vendor. Her dress was hideously dirty, stained with her own blood, Javert's blood, dirt and grime from the ground. She glimpsed at the wounds on her wrists – the blood had coagulated, but the bandages were drenched in the dried liquid. Genevieve needed to clean herself. First she enjoyed her breakfast.

Making her way down a particularly bustling street, she threw the apple core aside.

"Mademoiselle, I demand you pick that rubbish off the street!"

Genevieve gradually turned around, her eyes widening for a second as she saw a gendarme sauntering toward her. One of the two gendarmes who had arrested her the day of her attempted purse theft. "Good monsieur," she began with a sugar-coated voice. "I was looking for you."

The gendarme briefly forgot about the apple core and stood before her, stunned. "Me? But you are nothing more than a disgusting working woman!"

She clasped his hands in hers. "Yes, I am. And have I got a proposal for you, monsieur."

The gendarme raised an eyebrow, entire face seeming to furrow. "What is this proposal?"

Genevieve smoothly leaned in, whispering into his pinkish ear.


	9. Chapter 9

Genevieve stood warily before the grainy door, eyes dark and glazed. Used to living in small spaces on the highest floor, she was surprised to find the room located in the middle – on the second floor. Floors in a building were the hierarchy of wealth. However, the closer one was to the top of the order, the poorer one was. Before stumbling upon the room, she had rudely pictured some insignificant crawl space near the roof. Genevieve could almost feel a stifling cloud of embarrassment slowly beginning to permeate the air around her.

Blinking, her eyes fell upon the bronze doorknob. She reached out, although assuming the door to be locked, and tried it. Her hand numbly fell back to her side when the doorknob did not budge. She could easily pick the lock and be in the room in a matter of minutes. She had picked up the trick a while ago; the pick was hidden within the boning of her corset. But did she want to trespass, invade privacy? What would happen if she did? Did trust even exist between them? Genevieve doubted it. There was no trust, only suspicion – and there never would be. She had no reason to be trusted by anyone, raised a _gamin_, her credibility had been ruined from the start. Genevieve reached for the pick and started to work on the lock.

She pushed the door open with the tip of her shoe, letting it swing back roughly. She timidly took a step in, eyes scanning the entire place, ears perking up at every little noise. She was certainly testing limits by trespassing into _this_ room. But when Genevieve realized no one was home, she hurried inside, slamming and locking the door dramatically. Leaning against the door, arms sprawled across the wood, her heart pounded violently in her chest. At first she saw nothing, although she looked nervously from corner to corner. Only when her pulse began to slow and nerves began to calm, did she actually see.

Having trespassed numerous times, Genevieve knew the procedure.

Yet, this time felt somehow different, not right.

She felt uncomfortable.

She felt guilty.

Genevieve was stirred from her reverie as she started to focus on the room before her.

The room was spacious, mainly because it was sparse. Everything was neatly put together, dustless, pristine, just as she had expected. Her eyes lingered on the walls, and the translucent orange color which tinged them. A dresser, a chair, the wood paneling on the floor, her eyes lit up when they came to rest on a large four-poster bed. Her entire body seemed to ache again. Sleeping on a desk – sleeping on another person – however odd that sounded in her head, had not been the most comfortable rest. She dragged herself over to the side of the bed, placing her dirty hands upon the spotless white sheets. It was as if she were touching the face of a long-lost relative.

Genevieve told herself she would only sit and wait on the bed. She would simply sit down, and as long as she did not move too much, she would not stain the sheets. Genevieve climbed onto the bed, settling right in the middle. She sat contentedly for a few minutes, before her eyelids began to grow heavy, and then she was lying on her back, staring dazedly up at the ceiling. To someone who had not had luxury of a bed in weeks, resting against the sheets felt otherworldly. Genevieve blinked a few times, before her eyes closed entirely.

When she woke, the room was completely dark, with only a sliver of light creeping through the windows. She instantly panicked, forgetting where she was and a few seconds later, realizing the answer. Genevieve was still, unsure of her next move. The idea of trespassing had come easily, but now when she needed to get out, she had grown ignorant. Where would she go if she left? What would happen if she stayed? If she left, she would have to return to the streets – which was never a problem until recently. If she stayed, _he_ would surely return any minute and she would have to answer to her invasion.

Genevieve was so deep in her debate; she did not hear the door opening.

When a dark figure entered her peripheral, she glanced up, frightened.

He did not notice her, so she remained still, unable to find her voice. Just like when she had bandaged his wounds, she felt herself growing ashamed at seeing him unguarded, unlike his usual persona. She averted her eyes for a few seconds, although incapable of keeping them from lingering back to his shadowed form. Genevieve could only assume from his movements that he was taking off his bicorne, then greatcoat, placing them on the chair quietly. She had always found his movements stiff, with a certain rigidness to them, but in private, she found them smooth, almost mesmerizing. He seemed relaxed, and she felt bad for eventually having to awkwardly interrupt. Which would be soon, seeing as he appeared to be lighting a lamp.

The light flickered uncertainly for a moment, as if allowing Genevieve time to collect her thoughts before he demanded an explanation.

For the first time, she was able to see the faintest trace of shock and fear on his face as his eyes settled upon her. His eyes traveled from the top of her head to her feet, as if he could not believe she was actually there. But soon disbelief changed into frustration. His eyes darkened, and he stood straighter, mouth set in a scowl.

Then he looked away from her, focusing on the floor to the left of his boot.

"Why are you here, Chastain?"

Genevieve slid guiltily from the bed. "I have nowhere else to go. But in all honesty, I was supposed to be gone before you came home."

He sighed angrily.

"I do not know why." Genevieve clasped her hands against the top of her thighs. "Not to steal, I assure you, monsieur."

"That is Inspector to you," he answered through clenched teeth. "Chastain, I have every right to lock you up again for this. In fact, I should arrest you right now."

Genevieve fell to her knees, shaking her head. "Please Inspector!"

Javert took a step back at her emotional display. He looked down upon her, scowling, seeming to be disgusted by her very existence. He did not understand her sudden outburst – was she not a _gamin_? Was the toughness she constantly displayed simply a front? Was she more complex than just a worthless, uneducated, filthy _gamin_? He watched the way her head trembled even after she had stopped shaking it.

"Tell me, Chastain, why you insist on crossing paths with me?"

Genevieve carefully stood, then steeled herself before looking him in the eyes. "You are unlike any of the other people I know. I feel like I might have a chance at adopting morals around you."

"Yet you trespassed into my apartment." He kept her gaze.

She looked away quickly, guiltily. "I realize my actions have not been the most honorable."

"And as such, your actions require a punishment."

Her face took on a disturbing expression of desperation, as if she were being issued the death sentence. She became speechless once again, defeated. Genevieve had suddenly become a delicate porcelain, on the verge of shattering. But just when he thought her to sink back onto the floor, she took a deep breath, straightened her posture, straightened her face. The emotional, complex human had been put away, only to be replaced by an unfeeling _gamin_.

"At first I did not know why I trespassed," she started slowly. "But now I do. I want to reach an agreement." She looked up, her eyes boring into his. "I am not going back to jail."

His interest was piqued by her brashness. He could easily arrest her, but for the moment wanted to grant her some leash and see what would become of it. "Well, what is this agreement?"

Genevieve was gradually regaining her confidence with each segment of leash she received. She believed herself to have a chance. He might have been toying with her, but her confidence was the teeth which gnawed at the leather. "I want you to help me with my morality. In return for your assistance, I shall help you with any needs you have."

Javert raised an eyebrow. Her agreement was not what he had expected, although he did not easily display his surprise. He paused for a moment, appearing to collect his thoughts. "You do realize that your agreement is not very moral."

"I said I just want you to help me with my morality. How and where I will chose to employ it is completely up to me." The smallest trace of a smirk fluttered across her lips.

"So you will completely submit to me, to better yourself as a person?"

Genevieve shrugged. "A small price to pay for someone like me."

He exhaled, eyes drifting up to the ceiling. "Someone like you – a _gamin_ – what do you mean?" He brought his steely gaze back down to her.

Genevieve smiled weakly, closing her eyes with a sigh. "There is a whole different world I am not sure you understand, Inspector. Yes, you are a part of the police force and deal with people like me. But I doubt you could last a day in my position."

"Such insolence," he murmured, although he wanted her to continue.

"And I do assure you Inspector, I have done a lot worse than simply submit to someone. I have also had a lot worse done to me than being arrested."

Javert was quiet and seemed to be regarding her words carefully, although Genevieve could not be sure. She watched him intensely, trying to gauge his reaction, but was unsuccessful. It would take something utterly horrible or shocking to produce any reaction from the man.

"How long would this agreement last?"

"We shall have to see," Genevieve replied in the most hopeful tone she could manage.

He ignored her; promptly answering in the same manner he used when on duty, "Go clean yourself up, Chastain. Your appearance is unacceptable."

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Happy to upload yet another chapter - I've been quite busy with school starting and all. However, I was sort of thinking to myself: as great the potential is for this story to go outside the rating, I want to keep it within boundaries. Also, if any of you find typos, gramatical errors, etc. - although I try not to just publish a "first draft" - please drop me a line ~ Thank you.


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